


An Eye for an Eye, and They took two

by Akiko_Natsuko



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anger, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, M/M, Revenge, Secret Relationship, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25108312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: Gone.Kieran was gone.Some part of Arthur knew that. The part of his heart that quivered and howled with a pain that he hadn’t felt in years. A part of him that wanted to fall to his knees and block out the world. To let the grief – and it shouldn’t be, can’t be grief, but it is – out for the whole world to hear.First there's grief and rage, then there's hatred and revenge and Arthur intends to have it all.
Relationships: Kieran Duffy/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	An Eye for an Eye, and They took two

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/vxTVpefYyB).

Gone.

Kieran was gone.

Some part of Arthur knew that. The part of his heart that quivered and howled with a pain that he hadn’t felt in years. A part of him that wanted to fall to his knees and block out the world. To let the grief – and it shouldn’t be, can’t be grief, but it is – out for the whole world to hear. He wants that moment of weakness, feels as though he’s shattering whether he gets it or not, but it’s not a choice. Not right now. Still, it’s harder than he cares to admit smothering that part of himself, to bury it deep in the aching, breaking thing in his chest. _Kieran…_ To focus on the here and now, the frantic shouts and cries, gunfire and terrified horses. _Kieran smiling soft and quiet as they nudge him for treats, knowing that he always has something in his pockets for them._ No, he can’t think about that now, doesn’t want to see those images, those memories and know that’s all that he has left now.

He focuses on Dutch, the other man hasn’t noticed his hesitation, his pain even though he feels it must be painted across his face. _Kieran…_ A bullet shatters the railing next to him, wooden splinters catching his arm and face, digging in, drawing blood. The physical pain is welcome, a balm against the deeper agony, and he draws it in, wraps it around himself like a protective shield. It’s instinct that makes him shoot back, that reminds him to keep himself out of the line of fire, but it’s rage, a growing, roiling thing rising beneath the pain that guides his shot. Arthur has never counted himself a good man, but he’s always tried to kill clean and quick, ain’t no reason to make people suffer… it’s an argument he’s had multiple times with various Gang members, most notably Micah on at least a dozen occasions. Today is different, and all he can see is that bloody stump, eyes gouged out of a face twisted in lasting terror, and the rage builds, and he shoots to hurt, to maim, to kill.

For a moment he resents the interruption when Dutch pushes him away, the order to get outside and protect the others taking a moment to reach him, words distorted over the roaring in his ears. But, outside offers the promise of getting close and personal with the O’Driscolls, and his lips are drawn back in a snarl as he takes the stairs two at a time, cursing Colm’s name as he goes. He had been prepared to let it go, even after all the ambushes and slights, after his own treatment at their hands. ‘ _I didn’t think you were coming back,’ Kieran’s voice was soft, afraid, a new bruise forming along the edge of his jaw. But his hands were gentle, steady as he helped Arthur sit to drink, relief in the lingering touch._ He wasn’t Dutch, he could see the difference between necessity and vengeance, always had taken slights with a blank expression and a calm that infuriated most people.

_I should have killed them then._

They had known that Colm wasn’t going to let it go, that Kieran was at risk and… the guilt is almost overwhelming because they had all but walked into this. Arthur had all but walked into it, and all he could think about was Kieran standing on the riverbank admitting that he scarcely dared leave the camp knowing what waited for him out there. _I should have protected him,_ it leaves a foul taste in his mouth, an undeniable truth that he can’t escape.

He’s on autopilot as he charges out of the front door, blind to the terror on the faces around them as he barks at them to get inside. _Protect what you have, and then…_ He doesn’t let himself finish that thought, keeps his eyes trained on John crouched behind the picket lines, the O’Driscolls in the tree, anything but the still form that he can see out of the corner of his eyes.

_Kieran._

“Hold here! Hold here!” He orders, falls into the familiar role, anything to stop himself from thinking, from feeling, although he knows that it won’t hold forever. Let’s himself sink into the rage again, although he forces himself to kill now, quick and clean, because there are too many of them and they’re already on the backfoot, but each time he shoots, he can’t imagine how much he could make them hurt, how much they should suffer. “Any more casualties?” He has to ask, although he’s not sure he can handle the answer at the moment, everything inside raw and ready to crumble.

“Just Kieran…at the moment.”

 _Kieran… alone… afraid…hurt…dead…_ There’s bile in his mouth, and he knows that if he tilts his head just a little to the side, he could see him. Would see what they had done to him, what Arthur had failed to protect him from. “Let’s try and keep it there….” He forces out between clenched teeth, swallowing back the fire, not looking as he continues to fire. _Kieran._

He hears someone shout about a wagon, but the words pass over him. There’s nothing but Kieran’s name ringing through his head, gunfire and a desperate, furious need to hold the grief at bay. It’s only when John shouts that they need to fall back that he realises the tide is still against them, and for a moment he falters. He doesn’t want to fall back, wants to stand there and shoot them all. To make the ground run with their blood almost lashes out when John tugs at him in passing. _They killed Kieran,_ he wants to snarl but doesn’t because that would be tantamount to saying, ‘he’s gone’, and if he does that now then he knows he will come undone, and they can’t afford for that to happen now.

Instead, he falls back, retreats into the house and hates himself for it, hates himself a little more when he drops the cabinet in front of the door and feels a momentary relief from the death snapping its jaws at its heels.

“Good, now everyone I’ve got this…” The urge to snap and snarl is back again, because if Dutch had had this, then Kieran would…

That’s a thought for later because he doesn’t trust himself not to lash out right now, let alone to regret it. Instead, he falls back on the habits of a lifetime, listens to Dutch and takes his place at the window. Channels his rage at the O’Driscoll’s outside, smashing the windows, glass adding to the cuts from the splinter, a welcome hurt. “Is everyone accounted for?” He remembers to ask, the words feeling as though they’ve come from a different lifetime, because the one person he wants to be there isn’t. _Kieran…_ He snarls at the ‘I think’ – doesn’t trust them to know, not now, because how could they have let the O’Driscolls get to Kieran or get this close.

Almost takes John’s head off when he curses Kieran.

“Damn, Kieran. Should never have taken that O’Driscoll in…”

The words are there. _He was more a Van der Linde than an O’Driscoll…more one of us than any of you cared to acknowledge…_ And he has to bite his tongue to stop them lashing out. Later, he promises himself, knows that they aren’t the kind of words that he can keep inside forever. He doesn’t want to. He wants them to see the Kieran he knows, knew… _Kieran…_ It’s getting harder to hold it in, the anger not enough to sustain him.

The Sadie screams.

He doesn’t hesitate to go to her. He can’t lose anyone else today, even as he knows that she was one of the most intolerant of Kieran’s presence in the camp, a former O’Driscoll so close like a constant needle in her grief. It’s easy to be swept along by her anger and enthusiasm for the fight. To focus on keeping her alive, a purpose other than the boiling rage in his chest. She’s a force to be reckoned with, and somewhere in the back of his mind an idea stirs, half-formed, too dangerous to consider just yet even as it whispers to him, and his eyes are on her, watching her lips echo his own snarl as she takes down one O’Driscoll after another.

_Make them pay…_

It feels like a lifetime and yet no time at all before the O’Driscolls are retreating, the tide finally turning against them, and Arthur is ready to chase them into the trees. To hound them to ends of the earth. Almost does, before he makes the mistake of looking to the left, eyes landing on Kieran and like that the fight drains out of him.

_Kieran…_

Numbness creeps over the rage now, and he’s barely aware of Dutch cursing and calling the O’Driscolls cowards, and Hosea asking if everyone is okay. Sound rushing back to him as Dutch replies, moving towards the body that Arthur can’t stop staring at now. “I think so, apart from Kieran here.” _Don’t say his name,_ Arthur snarls, in his mind. Doesn’t want any of them to talk about him, to pretend as though they had ever seen him as anything more than an O’Driscoll, even though he knows that’s not entirely fair, remembers Kieran and Mary-Beth laughing and chatting in snatched moments. Snarls outwardly as Dutch continues. “Poor kid.” The sympathy is real, but not enough, not by far and Arthur’s hands curl into fists at his side. “Mr Swanson, would you take this boy and bury him someplace near… but not too near.”

 _Of course,_ Arthur’s nails are digging into his palm now, hard enough to draw blood. _Can’t be tainted by an O’Driscoll can we…?_ He’s stepping forward, ready to protest, to tell them that he should be the one to do it. That he needs to be the one to do it, but the Reverend is already there.

“Charles help me with the body…”

_The body…_

_…the body…_

Numbness turns to nausea, and he freezes, helpless to do anything as they lift Kieran’s body – because that’s all he is now, at least in their eyes. Eyes wide and burning, as he watches Hosea lift Kieran’s head, sees it turn towards him, hollowed-out eyes staring accusingly at him.

_Why didn’t you come?_

_Why didn’t you stop this?_

_Why didn’t you protect me?_

Arthur doesn’t have any answers for him, but he doesn’t let himself look away until they’re out of sight, etching the sight into his memories. It will haunt him. It should haunt him, as he doesn’t deserve to be free of this, of what he had allowed to happen.

There is chatter around him, orders being barked, the cleanup beginning as though Arthur’s world hadn’t just been turned on its head. The urge to snap and snarl at them is there, and it ratchets up a notch when Dutch moves alongside him, the toe of his shoe digging at the soil stained with Kieran’s blood.

“Colm O’Driscoll…”

“That man can really hate…” Arthur lets himself snarl now, blood rising. He had hated the man for Dutch’s sake before, but it had been distant, something that he could leave behind if needed. All he had cared about was whether the man was a threat or not. _And he was…_ Now though, his hate burns brighter than his rage, runs deeper than the grief that he can feel welling up now that he’s no longer focused on their survival.

Now, he wants to kill him.

“So, can I, Arthur,” Dutch replies, voice a low growl. “So can I.” For a wild moment, Arthur thinks that the other man is going to order them to ride out against the O’Driscolls, almost anticipating being able to surprise him when this time he doesn’t argue or offer doubts. He wants this, needs it. _Not as much as I can,_ he thinks.

Then he looks in Dutch’s eyes, and while there is anger and hate, it’s the simmering kind. The sort that can be laid aside until another time. Dutch is talking again, and Arthur plays along with the conversation on autopilot, something about camps and leaving and that thrice-cursed job in Saint-Denis. He has no idea what is said, or what he replies because all he can focus on is the fact that right now Dutch is focused on money and his grand plans, and not what the O’Driscolls had done, or what they…what Arthur had lost. Not that he knows everything, it had been safer for both of them that way, but it grates, and it’s almost a relief when the older man moves away, ordering him to meet him near the Trolley Station as soon as possible, Kieran’s death already a footnote in his mind.

“Arthur…?” How long had John been there? A while if the disgruntled expression on the younger man’s face was anything to go by, and Arthur blinks at him and then looks away, looks in the direction that they’d carried Kieran’s body… _just a body now…_ and feels something give in his chest. Everything that he had pushed away and buried earlier now fighting to rise up, and even as he pushes back, he knows that it’s no good, that he’s splintering. He feels a hand on his arm, here’s something about ‘blood’ and ‘are you hurt’, looks back at John having half-forgotten that he was there again, and then turns and walks away.

Ignores John calling to him.

Ignores the worried whispers of the camp.

He doesn’t leave the camp, even though part of him wants to mount up and ride as far away as possible, as though that will change what has happened. Instead, he circles the house and heads out the back follows the riverbank to one of the boarded-up cabins that back their property. Keeps his head high, and shoulders straight, until he’s out of view of the main house, stepping around the back of the cabin. Makes it half a step, before he’s falling. There’s pain as he lands on his knees, bracing himself with bloodied hands and arms, but it’s nothing compared to the agony rising in his chest, as his control wavers, trembles and shatters and takes his heart with it.

He doesn’t sob, as much as he keens. A creature in so much pain that there are no words, no coherent sounds, just a low noise building in the back of his throat as his eyes burn, his heart splinters and tears – something he hadn’t shed since Eliza and Isaac – fall.

_Kieran…_


End file.
